Peeps
by starofoberon
Summary: Silly little quickie about a stakeout gone awry that my beta and I came up with. It's a new fandom for us and we just love the characters.


Reese had done—and seen—a lot of things in his long career in Special Ops, but what he was seeing now through a peephole in the wall of a seedy hotel room was a true first. He was not sure which freaked him out more: the sight of Finch's pale, flabby naked buns pumping arrythmically, or the pair of shapely brown legs coiled around his hips. He wished he were more familiar with Det. Carter's lower limbs. It was an easy assumption that the person currently makin' the happy with the Finchy was Carter, but his experience had been that the easier the assumption, the more dangerous it was likely to become.

On the other hand, he'd recognized Finch's butt immediately—it was kind of hard to mistake, actually, given that the left cheek was considerably tauter than the right. But regardless of whether the shapely brown legs belonged to Carter or not, they were definitely female, and they were definitely thrashing in ecstasy. _You dog_, he thought. _Come off all geeky to the world at large, but get you in bed and you're a stud. _

And speaking of dogs … there was a case to be made that he had no business knowing what his employer's buttcheeks looked like, let alone recognizing them from five meters away. _Oh, cram it_, his id snarled. _He rented the rooms. He is the resident of record of the next room. Not rocket science to call that particular posterior the south end of a northbound Harold._

And a Harold who was unaware he was presently being observed. They'd discussed installing a camera for surveillance, but Reese had stumbled upon a low-tech solution instead: a peephole behind a fading dollar-store print of a Paris street scene. Some lech had obviously been here before him with the same thing in mind, but for an earthier purpose: getting off, or blackmail, or both. And before Reese had been able to tell Harold his alternative plan, well, Finch had already, um, swung into action himself.

"Disgusting, ain't it?" a voice said behind him, and only a lifetime of schooling his reflexes kept him from spinning around in alarm. The voice, he recognized immediately as Fusco's. How he had entered the room without triggering any of Reese's sensors, either electronic or inborn, was another question entirely.

Keeping his own tone level, even casual, Reese gave one of those slow, warm smiles for which he was justly famous, the smiles that he knew made all the girls squeal and all the guys believe (rightly or not) that they were in on a joke together. "I don't know," he replied. "I think it's kind of sweet."

"Sweet, huh? Keep up that kind of talk, and I'll start thinking you're on the sweet side yourself."

The smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. "Mind your own business, Lionel," he growled. "And speaking of which, how do you happen to know what's going on in there? I thought you weren't setting up the equipment until three."

Fusco grinned. "Found a little peephole of my own."

For a moment, Reese found himself totally confused. Then it dawned on him. "Don't tell me—you were in the room on the opposite side!"

Fusco shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Yeah, we—" His expression soured. "The deal was that Carter and me was gonna be setting up an alternate viewing position. I go down to get us some coffee and when I get back … she's open for business, like they say."

His voice still even and his smile again warm, easy, Reese said, "You know, that would hold up, Lionel, but I don't see any coffee in your hands." The telltale jolt of fear in Fusco's eyes gave away the game. "Maybe," Reese continued, "maybe you gave the coffee to whoever slipped you in here so nice and quiet?"

"Okay, okay," Fusco said. "Jacobs, on duty there, owes me one for not ratting him out for sleeping during our last stakeout. He's got a skeleton key from the management, passed it along."

Somehow Reese kept the distaste off his face and out of his voice. "And you decided to do a little surveillance on your own partner. Almost makes me think you knew something interesting might be going to happen."

Fusco cleared his throat a couple times. "Okay, I admit I been suspecting that Carter's got herself a little sugar for the little guy. I didn't think it would go that far that fast, though. I mean, they ain't even been to first base before, and I'm gone for, what—eight minutes is all, and they're already headin' into the home stretch, if ya know what I mean."

_Well, no_. Reese was again confused. "You got a little metaphor problem there, Lionel?"

"Metaphor? Whaddaya mean? I'm not on dope."

Reese rolled his eyes. "Never mind. Look, what I want is your promise that what you saw in there stays between you and me." His voice turned positively silken. "And if you don't make me that promise, Lionel, I'm going to be very, very disappointed."

Again that flash of fear. "Aw, okay. I promise. But I gotta confess—I wish I knew the little guy's secret. I wouldn't mind gettin' in Carter's pants myself."

Reese studied him for a long moment, then reached out and laid his hand on the detective's shoulder. "You could do it, you know, Lionel."

The hopeful look on Fusco's face was almost pathetic. "Ya think so?"

He nodded. "Oh, absolutely, Lionel. Just let 'em out a couple inches and don't try to close the zipper."


End file.
